from a night spent laying,

spinning circles with my eyes closed

flat backed on a lofted bed.

choking back tears from bloodshot eyes

now i'm drunk as fuck

laying on my back in a field of daisies

and my eyes hurt and my teeth are stained purple

and my heart is a fucking mess.

then i'm stoned as hell

pushing down the high E on 

a casio keyboard

and my hands keep shaking

from a night spent lying on my back

with a view of the city skyline

and the buildings sometimes sing songs 

to each other 

and the hills sometimes listen.

and the stars sometimes scream

until the noises flood our ears

and we can't breathe or speak or talk

and the words get caught in the backs of mouths

and the fire in our bellies will thaw our dry throats

and the wine in my hand will quench my thirst

play back

the eight track

until the stereo breaks

into a cold sweat.

press repeat until your fingers break.

lift the needle

until the vinyl starts scratching

and coughing.

throws in the white flag and retires.

keep your face pressed to the

glass of the shop on

3rd & main

until the door is opened 

and the owner comes out yelling 

and tells you to go home.

keep your eyes open until something changes.

its a motherfucking thing

when,
you slowly realize that the peices of
the puzzle are finally coming together.
when you realize that you are both
the ship
and the bottle
and the old man whose
shelf you're sitting on.
and you set your sails but
the winds don't blow,
there are only stormy seas
and a belly full of whiskey
there are only the times
when you wish for dry land
and to take your lovers lips and
hold her until the dead of morning
because there are still flowers
on the back of your fingers
and twelve tiny gods
sifting their fingers through your hair
and you throw the anchor to the glass bottom of a lifetime
and you slowly realize that you are both the
wall and the door
and the window
and the ceiling
and nothing is as clear as
seeing for the first time
and nothing is as pure as
this air resting in the bottom of a glass sea.

you asked for a poem

so i scribbled seven flowers

on the back of a napkin

folded it

and walked away

i told you this shit

can't last forever

the days are fading,

fading fast.

and soon my mind is gone.

fucked.

into a million pieces

into a an entire arrangement of stars on

the back of your eyelids.

into a reflection in a tide pool.

and i swear to god that 

the water versus the anchor is the most beautiful sight

i've seen in the past 12 days

and i swear to god that

it plays over and over in my head like a loop on the last

8 frames of film

and there's a slow-motion 

image of zeus,

playing a harp 

and singing blue grass in 

the middle of a wheat field.

and i can't take my eyes 

off his fucking face.

and i can't fixate my stare in any other direction... 

its

days like today,
the days when i sit
and write letters to
st. peter.
asking him to make sure
he spells my name right.
and i laugh to myself
another joke
and i grab another bottle
of store-brand wine from the shelves
and over-draft my bank account until i'm
blue in the fucking face.
and i'll sit in parks
on benches
on grass
under trees
and on the tennis court
and smoke and think
and write until i'm drunk in the tips of my fingers
and the bottles lay unopened at my side.
the days like these when time slowly passes
and hours crawl by like disease
and swarm with the bees and the birdshit.
and it's a peaceful type of cynicism
the kind that brings my eyes to a close
the kind lets me sleep
and pray
and finally find rest.
and the sounds
of the first rain of the day;
and again i feel like drowning.
and again i feel like everything is falling apart.
and i can't stop the anchor from scraping the ocean floor
because i can't breathe.

is it

the saddest state
to be sick on the only beautiful day
in a month?
am i losing my mind because i can't
keep track of the days or months?
is there something in my brain that tells me
i need to put off all the important shit in my
life so i can walk around with no purpose for
3 hours on a tuesday night?
if this is crazy than i am happy.
if this is loneliness than i am content.
if this is true than i am the saddest creature to walk the earth.

a rough night for castro

she reminds me to 

hear my voice in the cold

and i think of her kindly

and its weird to think that far in the future 

sometimes

but i do it out of habit

like biting my fingernails

like cracking my knuckles

and it's strange to think that other 

times i get too sad or too drunk to write

and i sit in the corner with my drink or tissue

and i make lists in my mind

and sometimes the back of my hand leading up my arm to the elbow

of all the beautiful things i want to say

and do

and pray

and think

and all that's left in the morning is a cloudy head 

or a smudgy fucked up looking arm

and i think back to all the beauty running through my mind at night

and all i can remember is how i'd say

i love her like the ocean loves the wind 

and how i'd love her like the rain loves the city

and how i loved her like the ice loves the cold

and every once in a while i laugh at myself

sitting in bed 

like an anchor to the blankets

and i find myself struggling to breathe 

and the air gets heavy in my lungs

and i find the only release these fingers have.

january 12th

sometimes i get sentimental
and it makes me want to do something drastic,
like play a piano in the bottom of the ocean,
or atleast take my toaster in the bathtub.
and sometimes i think
about the flowers in her hair
or the way we sit,
cross-legged watching the clouds pass by as
if we were in motion
and they were some stationary being.
other times i remember
hearing god in her voice
the way we whispered meaningless
secrets into the other
and sometimes, i'm told,
i resemble the holy ghost
but only in the face and nose
because nothing holy could have these withered hands
and nothing beautiful could be touched by this,
calloused skin.
and i say to myself,
sitting on the rooftop of a parking garage
smoking my last bowl,
that someday i'll resemble jesus,
in more than just the facial features
but in the hands and chest as well.
and our wine-stained lips will find rest on eachothers
until a symphony is rising up in our chest
and release is found in the foriegn face.
and a smile is born on mine.
but i'm still sunk down
hitting one key at a time
on a piano sunken to the bottom of the sea.

cantankerin'

when is it official that a feeling is dead?
because my madonna's undressing
her face like a whore.

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

and we killed the dream

of being lonely

until it became the only truth we knew.

and we wrote the book

of drinking every night

getting shit faced and crazy

getting fucked up and lazy

and we wrote the book

that had the map 

that led me home.

and we were only saying that we would fall

on our swords 

before the 

whole world ends 

and i'm left standing on your edge 

believing in you.

and i'm left to curl up in the corner

and sometimes i cry because that's the only thing i remember how to do on 

days like these

and we tore out the withered pages

and we swore when we wrote in the margins

and we kissed the filthy ground

in a way that still feels 

like a black and white movie

and we wrote the book

that told you to be happy

and we wrote the book 

and we wrote the book

and we wrote the book

good goddamn

sometimes pale-faced lovers

kiss while sitting on sidewalks.

sometimes they hold hands when they

walk

and sometimes she smokes cigarettes

and talks about god&her dreams&fears

and the queer looking couple from down the hall

spoon at 3 o'clock in the afternoon 

while they say they're taking a 

nap

and sometimes she'll swear he's crazy 

because of his hair&his gods&dreams

and others just fuck.

because they don't give a good goddamn 

about anything anymore

so they fuck so they can breathe

and they fuck so they can sleep

and they fuck so they don't have to feel anything anymore

and sometimes it's like i don't want to feel anything anymore

so fuck.

but let's take a walk down god's spine

where ever the hell he stops we'll build an a-frame and call it home.

and sometimes i take off my jacket and set it on the floor

as if that is the place where my jacket is always set.

and sometimes i talk my self in circles until i'm dizzy and

i can't breathe

and sometimes i get drunk to find god

and sometimes i find him

and sometimes i find him.

i laughed when you told me to laugh
because that's the appropriate thing to do.
yes?
yes.
yesyesyes.
my heart's been hurting for some time now
but it's nothing
that a fresh pack of cigarettes
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a bike ride through
a snow covered field in mid-march
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a dozen fresh picked dandelions
and a fistful of dirt
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a new pair of shin-high
elastic socks with the blue or red stripes
can't take care of.
but don't take care of me.
i'll be just fine
because i've got my cigarettes, bikes, flowers, and socks and i'll always be just fine.
but i've been running my hands over the ground
turning my fingers brown from the mud
and i've looked through the leaves&diseased&thebirdshit.
but it still feels like a 3 o'clock after-school sitcom
so don't take care of me.

of course,

ofcourse, ofcourse.

of course it would snow my first day back.

the gloomy clouds of the rainy city

decide my every move.

curled up in a blanket 

waiting for the bags to unpack themselves

ships engraved in ceramic cups

and the first cup of coffee of what 

seems to be the first of many long nights.

and i'm stretching my legs 

hoping that the gods will bless my right hand

and i'm closing my eyes 

hoping that my love will bring me a coaster 

so i don't get those irritating circular stains on my desk from the bottom of my coffee cup.

so tell me,

how am i supposed to get her back?

because all i want is to be able to hold her again.

and it's snowing.

and i will always think of you.

listen:

old crow medicine show- hard to love

brand new- degausser